The Peregrine

She mounts the heights, with golden wings
And blends to patterns of blue and white.

With vision clear, she observes
The patchwork of both God and men.

She cries out in the agony of her sorrows,
but it reaches as a whisper below.

The air is black
The land is shroud in darkness
The water burns of chemicals.

Creation has swallowed up,
All the creator gave.

She soars upward, once again
And then, with spirit broken,
She falls.

by Linda K. Vasconcelos

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